The Lord of the Rings: Journey of the Ring
by Evil Riggs
Summary: A thousand years have passed since Brainiac used the One Ring to cover the world in fire. Now, the Ring reappears in the Deep Shire - inherited by unassuming Aang. Will he, the technomancer Iroh, and seven other heroes be able to destroy it?
1. Prelude

PRELUDE

Given a long enough time, everything turns to dust and ashes. Memories fade, storytellers die, and legends go untold. Paper crumbles and circuitry rots. Given enough time, even the strongest myths can become mere ghosts in the deep places of the world.

Five-and-a-half thousand years have passed since the days when the VALAR gathered the shattered remnants of humanity and brought them to Meridian. So much has happened in that time that no one – not even the immortal watchers of the Istari – can know all of it. In these days, perched at the precipice at the end of the Third Age, much of Meridian's history has fallen into legend and rumor.

And thus, it may come as no surprise that the shadows of Meridian's past may well be its undoing. More than a thousand years ago, much of civilization cracked apart in the Days of Fire. An unspeakable evil, the synthetic being known as Brainiac, made war against the disparate peoples of the world. Cities fell, green lands burned down to deserts of black glass, and countless millions died. Whole peoples and cultures disappeared in the conflagration. Pushed to the brink of annihilation, only a lucky stroke allowed humanity to strike back and defeat Brainiac once and for all.

. . . At least, that's what the legends say. Few if any mention the ultimate weapon that Brainiac used to subdue and annihilate everything before it. Very few speak directly of the One Ring.

The final remnant of a dark technology older even than the Istari, the One Ring was both the source and agent of Brainiac's power. From its design, other rings were forged and given over to the lords of the world – three to the Prefects of the Transcendent, seven to the Taskmasters of the Delvers, and nine to the knights, kings, and barons of the Geneborn. One by one, the keepers of the rings succumbed to Brainiac's will, their flesh and souls corrupted until they were little but wraiths beneath its command.

Even fragmentary history can reveal key details. In the final battle, the forces opposing Brainiac did indeed have many moments of great luck and greater bravery. A Geneborn prince severed the One Ring from its master; in the ensuing chaos, the tide of battle turned and Brainiac's armies were destroyed.

But . . . then what? The One Ring, already a whisper in a storm of legends, vanished. No tales detail its fate. Some say that Marth, the prince who led the final charge, destroyed the foul weapon and scattered its remains from a peak high in the Mountains of Madness. Others assert that he gave it over to the technomancers of the Istari, to be locked away until the dying hours of the world. And yet others claim that Marth kept it for himself, using its power to build his noble house into a mighty empire.

No one can say for any certainty. And the truth can sometimes be much stranger than spun fictions.

Now, Meridian is a bizarre and haunted world. Thousands of years of warfare, plagues, and the rise and fall of nations have taken their toll. Between the domes of great cities, the wilderness is littered with the detritus of ages. The splintered descendants of humanity tend only to their own affairs and have little to do with one another. Most ignore the portents rising in the east, beyond the Coal Straits and the Mountains of Madness. On the charred continent of Coludor, the abandoned forges and factories of Brainiac have begun to glow anew. Mutants gather in ever-greater numbers. The winds smell of salt, iron, and fire. Wise men speak of acid rain and black snows.

Though Meridian has forgotten, and its owner has no idea of its true importance . . . the One Ring stirs.


	2. A Big Day for All of Us

THE LORD OF THE RINGS

BOOK ONE:  
JOURNEY OF THE RING

**A Big Day for All of Us**

"Gimme a cigarette."

Spider Jerusalem squats in an alcove, jammed between pipes as if trying to imitate his namesake. His hand shoots out, spindly fingers grasping at air. His thumb and middle finger snap twice.

Pale, antiseptic light pours down from the neat rows of long bulbs overhead. It washes over bare concrete, two young men in ratty black, and the seemingly endless web of utility conduits. The air tastes wet and slightly metallic. Somewhere down the service corridor, steam hisses from an unseen valve.

Dib stands and rummages through the interior of his coat. His clumsy hands fumble across hidden pockets, testing each for its contents. Glasses case, pocket calculator, an empty crisps bag, pens, a small journal. At last, he extracts a beaten, off-white cigarette packet. "Only two left," he clucks, squeezing the top of the box open. He pulls out one of the generic cigarettes and hands it to Spider.

"I'll buy the next pack," Spider says, jamming the cigarette between his lips. He grins, big overly-white teeth shining. A lighter appears in his hand, as if by sorcery, and spews a tiny, sputtering flame. It twists and dances in the subtle, damp breeze that flows down the tunnel. The tip of the cigarette chars and glows bright orange. Spider takes a pull. Moments later, thin, acrid smoke trickles from his wide nostrils. "Ah yeah," he hisses, "does a body _good._"

Dib tucks the last of the cigarettes behind one ear. He adjusts his glasses with his off hand. "You have any idea where Sokka is? We can't just wait around all day."

Spider laughs. The sound is dry and growling – the kind of bestial rumble that heralds the coming rasp of a lifelong smoker. "Hey now. Hey." He sucks deep on his cigarette, takes a moment to let the smoke swirl about his insides, and lets it waft out from between his clenched teeth. "I love to complain about him as much as anyone. You know me."

A sniff. Dib swipes at a long, black hair as it tickles across his nose. He nervously steps to the humming wall and leans. "Right."

"Sokka's a special case, man. You have to give him time. If you hurry him, you're liable to catch him the one half of the time he's not a goddamn genius. Throw him off," Spider flicks a tiny cloud of ash onto the floor, "and you're liable to get a prolonged period of stupendous jackassery."

"If you say so," Dib sighs. He stares forward, focusing on a barely-perceptible crack that runs along the far wall and disappears behind a cluster of fat green tubes. He should never have come out. Every wasted minute weighs heavier and heavier, building knotted tension in his back and shoulders. The smell of cigarette smoke grows too thick and enticing. Dib sweeps the remaining coffin nail down off his ear and extracts a paper matchbook from yet another deep pocket. Printed on it, gold letters on a faded blue background, is, _Starry Deeps_. For a moment, his breath catches and something below his stomach clenches.

"Besides," Spider says, "I wouldn't dare interrupt a man about Sokka's business." He chuckles.

_Swa-bang!_

Every muscle contracts; every joint springs painfully into motion. Dib jumps three or four feet straight up. The cigarette and matchbook tumble from his hands, juggle along his awkwardly snatching fingers, and clatter to the floor.

The sound of the opening hatch reverberates up and down the maintenance corridor. Deep steel echoes thunder from floor to ceiling, traveling off into the dim recesses of the tunnels. Furious footfalls resound in their wake.

"Guys! Whew – hey, guys," a voice calls. Loud, cheery, and eager.

Dib feels Spider rise beside him. The older boy's gaunt frame moves past him and further into the corridor. "Took you long enough."

Sokka dashes into view. His legs tangle beneath him as he skids to a stop, nearly pitching him off his feet. Only his windmilling arms keep him from crashing face-first into the concrete. He wobbles with all the grace of a drunken heron.

"Sorry – phew – sorry I'm late. Got, uh, caught up. Didn't see the time!" he announces. Sweat dapples his forehead and shines along his neck.

"Sure. Sure you got caught up." Spider stabs the glowing cherry of his cigarette in Sokka's direction. "_In Yumi Ishiyama's underwear._"

Sokka stiffens. A flush crawls over his cheeks. "It – it's not like that," he stammers. "Seriously."

"Oh?" Spider asks. "'Just friends,' then?" Spider gives Sokka an appraising look. The cigarette rises to his lips and its ember flashes hot amber. "The way I hear it, she _desires _you," he exhales. "_Sexually_."

Sokka lets a small, sheepish smile part his lips. "Well – I –" The look of embarrassment passes. Something sly and more composed takes its place. "What's with the interrogation?" he muses. His breathing slows and evens. "And besides – it's not the point. I thought you wanted help with some business before the party."

"Right," Dib coughs. "Shouldn't we, uh . . . ?"

"Get going?" Spider finishes. The knowing (all-too-knowing) smile never leaves his face. "I suppose that we should. Why not?" He starts down the tunnel with long and lazy strides.

Sokka exchanges a perplexed look with Dib, and then ambles after. Dib sighs, quickly gathers the cigarette and matches scattered on the floor, and makes to follow his friends.

"Hey – wait. Where's Aang?" Sokka calls ahead. "Didn't you tell him? Shouldn't we wait?"

Spider never turns. His gravelly voice slips back to Sokka and Dib on hollow, metallic echoes. "He's up top. Waiting for what's-his-face to show up. You know? That wizard who drops in on his uncle from time to time."

"Iroh?" Dib suggests.

"Really? Iroh's coming for the party?!" Sokka spins about to look at Dib, nearly tripping himself in the process. "I love that guy!"

"Yeah," Dib concedes. "He's pretty great."

"Remember when we were kids? And he'd brew us all tea n' tell us stories about Rapture and the Transcendents and the old wars?" Sokka beams. "Man! Guy's a badass. If even half of what ol' Jiraiya says about him is true . . ."

Two other passages suddenly branch from either side of the corridor. Each is guarded by a titanic, slowly spinning ventilation fan. Beyond, gloomy tunnels run off into dark infinity. Dim shafts of light cut through the murk at odd intervals. Dib can just barely hear the insistent chug of huge pistons and turbines buried in concrete.

Spider's pace slows. "Jiraiya's a tough old bastard, I'll give him that," he says. "All the same, he's more than a bit of a drunk. Horndog, too. Iroh's strange to be sure, but I wouldn't put it past Jiraiya to stretch the truth a bit – especially if it gets him another round or loosens some poor girl's bra strap."

"So you're saying you don't believe him?" Sokka asks. He sounds a bit disappointed.

Spider shrugs. Ash crumbles from his dwindling cigarette and tumbles through the air in a gray puff. "Deep Shire's a big place, but the world's bigger. There's a lot of weird stuff out there. And since I've never been out of the Shire . . ." he trails off thoughtfully. "Maybe it's all true. Maybe it isn't. Doesn't matter." He shoots a conspiratorial glance back at his comrades. "At least, it matters as much as whether ol' Sokka's slipping Yumi his love sausage."

An indignant sputter. "Hey!"

Ignoring the outburst, Spider continues, "All I know is that Jiraiya is throwing a party for the ages tonight, that Zolo needs me to run something down-levels for him, and that there's a bag of cactus buttons in it for us if we play our cards right."

Though Sokka hoots with excitement, Dib only feels a wave of cool foreboding. It sluices down his spine and weighs against the back of his guts. Oh no. Not this again. Nothing good will come of it. Dib keeps his mouth shut and plods along like a man being led to the gallows.

A wide steel door, spotted and discolored, appears to the left. Next to it, stenciled in black Western letters on the scrubbed cement, is:

SUBLEVEL 2 SECTION 12  
GREEN CONCOURSE  
SUBSIDIARY ACCESS 4

Spider takes hold of the heavy handle of the vault door. It takes a mighty tug of his skinny arms to pull back the lever, disengage the inner locks, and slide the door open. An access corridor yawns behind it, bathed in headache-inducing yellow light. Filtered air hisses from vents along the floor and ceiling. The three shuffle through the pressure door and into the long hallway. It shuts behind them with a surly _CLUNK_.

Already, Dib can hear it: A far-off, almost watery rush and hiss.

Another pressure door stands at the end of the hallway. Tiny red lights blink languidly around its edges. Sokka scoots forward and takes the wheel at the center of the door in his hands. "Allow me," he smirks.

"Shut up," Spider growls. Sweat still plasters his short hair from the previous door.

A spin of the wheel; the _click-clack-clock_ of surrendering locks; the door opens outward to a roar of sound and light. An alleyway lit in a rainbow of neon colors yawns before the door, leading out into the concourse and the mad din of the bazaar. Spider leads them out and into the thick of it.

It all gives way. The clean, dry air of the tunnels becomes heavy, vaporous, and swirling with ten-thousand odors. Frying food; engine exhaust; hot water cooling in puddles on the concrete; rank body odor; smoldering tobacco and stale weed; expensive cologne; garbage rotting in tight and secret spaces. Men hawk a dozen-dozen wares from windows and beside carts. Four figures on puttering scooters tear past the alley, their faces hidden by ceramic helmets and visors. Countless neon bulbs in every color spit and flicker, painting the street in manic kaleidoscope patterns. Somewhere, a public address speaker squawks static and then declares the top of the hour.

Spider flicks away the remains of his cigarette. The butt sails through the air and disappears from view. Silhouetted against a haze of green and orange and eye-watering baby blue, he proceeds out of the alley and into the streets. Sokka and Dib follow closely at his heels.

The light and tumult of the bazaar swallows them up.

---

The moment _they _hit the street, they're noticed. _Them. _Those three. Shopkeepers move to their store entrances and linger there, watching. Lips purse. One or two feel the tiny insistent pinch of ulcers.

There they go: Three unspeakable hooligans off to start god knows what, only god knows where. Terrors of the concourse, watched from the corner of every eye, and spoken of in fast whispers.

Their ringleader struts boney-kneed in his threadbare suit and smirks like a predator at every open shop and stall. He of the mismatched spectacles – worn with an absurd, belligerent pride. One lens a bulbous red circle, the other a shimmering green rectangle, and each rimmed with shining copper. He stares out over those bizarre glasses with sunken, hungry eyes. The tentacle edges of tattoos ooze from beneath his coat sleeves.

Behind him comes the kid in torn denim and dirty blue, mussed dark hair falling down to the base of his neck. Typical skater punk. The sort of trash that tears up and down the bazaar long after the lights have dimmed, raising hell. He moves with big, gawky steps – like he's just come off a growth spurt and isn't quite used to his long, wiry limbs. Skin somewhere between potter's clay and dark copper. Eyes like swathes of noon sky. His face is smooth and handsome.

The last of them hunches, lopes, and keeps his hands in the pockets of the long black coat that covers his body like a shroud. Thick, black-rimmed glasses sit over tiny dark eyes and a pale, drawn face dotted with raw acne. He doesn't so much walk as dart from spot to spot, struggling to keep pace with his companions. Shorter and slighter than either of the others, he's definitely the runt of the group. The kind of kid that gets turned upside down for pocket change. His nervous, roving eyes are all that are needed to confirm that that very scenario has probably played out more than once. All the same, his smile is large and genuine. When he speaks, his friends turn in their paces and listen. They grin like hyenas and slow their strides, nodding in tune to his words.

There they go. Three boys – near men – in the prime of it all. Laughing, jogging, jostling each other's shoulders, stinking of youth and confidence, and secure in the knowledge of their own invincible destinies.

Punks.


	3. A Thousand Lonely Hills

**A Thousand Lonely Hills**

A single, uninterrupted sweep of green and gold. It rolls and falls like the breeze-tossed surface of the sea. Among the swells and hummocks, the old roads run like a web of arcane lines – going nowhere, going everywhere. Groves of trees scatter the rich yellow light of late afternoon. Shadows pepper the cracked concrete paths and dance across the hillsides. Summer insects click and chatter in pools of rippling shade.

The prairie lands stretch away from the steam-cart's wheels like a wilderness sewn from pure possibility. From here, everything looks as peaceful and empty as a painting of the days before men. From here, one might not even notice that an entire city lies underfoot.

That is, if one ignores the obvious signs.

The tiny vents and crooked chimneys that pop out of the grass here and there, like furtive gophers. Hidden pillboxes draped with camouflage netting, nestled in the cusps between hills. Cables sheathed in segmented black ceramic, winding up trees and through the tall greenery. Jets of steam and exhaust that rise from hilltops from time to time like smoke signals. The unblinking lenses of cameras perched on branches. Oh, and the seemingly-abandoned – but still quite solid –hundred meter concrete wall that runs the perimeter of the entire region.

If one stayed blissfully ignorant of these and a myriad other warnings, one might pass over the Deep Shire and all the way to the shores of the Great Blue Sea without seeing a soul.

The breeze stirs the trees and ripples the surface of the grass with a gentle seething sound. The hot, dry scents of late summer blow up the road. His robes fill and flutter in the warm wind.

Iroh the Red sighs contentedly, adjusts his tinted goggles, and pulls back the ignition lever. The cart's engine grumbles, hisses, and roars to life. A torrent of heavy gray steam erupts from brass vents. The little blue vehicle shifts and shudders, and then takes off down the hillside trailing misty clouds.

It's not a particularly fancy vehicle, this steam-cart. The cab is open-air and contains just enough room for second passenger – that is, if they hold their breath and cinch their belt. The bed and chassis are a mottled gray-blue, patchy with many years' worth of spot-welds and jerry-rigged repairs. Weighted down as it is with packages and parcels, the whole affair skims low over the road, looking more comical than at all useful.

The day pulses with a dry, flat heat. Even as he rides down the road, Iroh can feel it radiating back up out of the concrete and into the soles of his sandals. The road winds down the hills and through the glades and meadows between. Copses of oak and nomad spruce encroach upon the ramshackle avenue. An ancient, crumbling timber structure passes on the left. A low, hidden yard filled with headstones passes on the right. The cart rumbles over a moss-festooned footbridge. The cool smell of the stream below it is like slow nectar in Iroh's nostrils. Ahead, the road dips through tall sycamores and lingers there, meandering, as if luxuriating in the leafy shade.

All is shadow and the road; hot wind through the branches and his hair; the chugging bark of the engine; hard green and soft gold; the smell of steam in his nostrils. His hands grip electric against the wheel.

A shape. In the corner of his eye. A shape – lithe, quick, coming fast. Dropping from the trees.

Iroh feels his eyes peel wide. Electric. A hand flails away – a perfect movement, quick and subtle as an adder. The staff sits in the perfunctory passenger's seat. His hand curls around its base.

Too late: The shape is here. The shape is now. Too fast. It strikes the bed of the cart and curls downward. The cart jolts and shudders.

Too late, old man. Too late.

Every muscle Iroh's body seems to shudder and clench. The wheel spins; the cart veers; the tires screech; the engine grinds and howls.

"Iroh!"

Iroh sees birds take flight, high in the tangle of branches above.

"Iroh, it's just me!"

Breaks whine; rubber squeals; broken cement thunders; teeth chatter. Iroh's eyes squeeze shut as the cart spins across the road and shudders to a halt. The only sound that remains is the engine, idling grudgingly.

"I guess I overdid it, huh?"

The old wizard allows himself to open his eyes and turn around slowly in his seat. A figure – the shape from the trees – leans over the cab of the cart. Sunlight pours through mussed black hair and throws a round, earnest face into silhouette. Wide, expressive gray eyes stare down in bemusement. The loose tail of a headband flutters in the breeze.

Iroh pulls the goggles up onto his forehead. The world's colors grow brighter and sharper. "Aang?" His lips part into a smile. "Aang, my boy!"

With a heady leap, Aang vaults from the bed of the cart and into its cab. He lands smoothly, brushing aside the technomancer's staff as he slouches his thin frame into the passenger seat. "Of course it's me!" Aang grins. "Who else do you think was gonna come let you in?"

Laughing, Iroh throws an arm over Aang's shoulder. "You scared the hell out of me, boy!"

"You're getting rusty," Aang says. "Uncle Jiraiya says that there wasn't a mutie alive that could sneak up on you in the old days."

A low, rolling chuckle. "Old days? Jiraiya, Jiraiya. That was like yesterday to me. But enough of that – let me get a look at you, boy. It's been, what –"

"Two years."

"Two years! By the VALAR, Aang, has it really been that long?"

The boy nods. Aang sits with his legs folded beneath him, as if every moment at rest is one of forced meditation. He wears long, torn jeans of the sort manufactured en masse in Deep Shire and loose leather sandals. Despite the rude caress of the day's heat, he wears a long-sleeved black shirt under an open red vest. Fingerless gloves cover his palms and knuckles. The headband he wears is a faded burgundy, and bears a symbol in its center –

Wait. That symbol. Iroh feels his smile falter.

An old symbol. A stylized orb containing three coiling lines, wrought in faded gold threads. An old symbol indeed.

(And all at once, Iroh remembers a night that does _not _feel like yesterday. Only fifteen years gone, and sometimes Iroh pauses to wonder if it wasn't fifteen-_hundred _years in the past. All at once, he remembers the scent of rain on the wind and the stink of blood wafting up from stone stairs. He remembers lightning flashing against the black spines of the peaks and a downpour that always lay just over the horizon. He remembers red pools growing black and sticky amongst the rocks.)

"Where did you find that headband, Aang?" It slips past his lips before he can stop himself. Fool. For a man who has walked the wide world for a hundred lifetimes, one would expect more restraint. No matter. He will have to leave the self-flagellation for later.

"Oh, this?" Aang points at the symbol. His smile turns wry and self-conscious. "I just found it. At this old thrift shop on the Blue Concourse. I like it."

Iroh manages to hold back an obvious sigh of relief. All right, then. He has no idea. Good. His ingratiating grin returns. "Still hiding your tattoos, I see."

Aang shrugs. "It's not like that."

"Oh?"

"Well, I don't really like showing 'em off. But it's not like I want to get rid of them, either. They're the only thing I have left from my family – my birth family, I mean – and that's important." He lifts the edge of the headband and scratches at his hairline. A bit of sky blue peeks out beneath it. "I even had them touched up a bit. Spider took me to the guy who did his tattoos and he –"

"And still hanging out with the Jerusalem kid? For shame, Aang." Iroh clucks his tongue and shakes his head, only half-sarcastically.

"What can I say?" Aang says. "He makes me laugh."

This time, Iroh does sigh. He slips the goggles back over his eyes and fiddles with the steam-cart's controls for a moment. "Can't argue with that, I suppose." The engine purrs to life and the cart thumps and rumbles back onto the road.

"Ah, don't be like that. It's a big day! It's Uncle Jiraiya's eighty-eighth birthday! Eighty-eight, and he doesn't act a day over fifty," Aang marvels.

And doesn't look like it either, Iroh muses. "Don't you mean a day over _fifteen_?" he says with a grin.

Aang laughs, and they're off.

It's not a very long journey to where they need to go: A big hillock, sticking out from all the others with its steep sides and nearly flat peak. The mossy trees and knee-high grass that grow along its slopes are very green. Brightly, almost harshlygreen. _Too _green. The road skirts around its base, dodging off into the plains and sinking into stands of old scrub oak. Iroh knows the score – as the old concrete turns away from the trees against the hillside, he plunges the cart off the paved surface and between two stone markers.

The cart bumps and wheezes for only a moment before its tires hit cleverly-disguised, well-maintained asphalt. The hidden road takes Iroh and Aang around the base of the hillock, away from the open highway. After about a quarter mile, it runs straight into a lichen-covered rock wall. Iroh pulls the cart to a slow halt. Before the vehicle has even stopped moving, Aang jumps from the passenger seat.

"I'll take care of this," he announces happily.

Iroh waits, hands firmly on the controls, as Aang dashes to the rocks and begins pawing at a cluster of off-yellow moss. He presses, then pulls, at the surface to reveal a hidden panel. The impatient noise of the engine masks whatever it is that Aang says into that panel (though Iroh could figure that out if he wanted to) and the distance hides what he types into the keypad below it (and Iroh could figure that out, too). Aang darts back, all coiled energy and anxious excitement. Some seconds pass.

With a terrific groan and a seismic shudder beneath the road-bed, the rocks of the hillside split apart. The sound of old hydraulics squeals through the air. A fine pall of rust-stinking mist flows out of the space beyond the hillside. Somewhere, alarm klaxons wail and echo down into the earth.

Aang reappears in the passenger seat, and Iroh silently maneuvers the cart into the darkness behind the open hillside. The entire world fills with the sound of pistons, gears, and mighty cogs. The camouflaged gates close behind them with an immense crash, snuffing out the light of summer. Darkness swallows everything.

Iroh strips off his goggles and sits for a moment, breathing in the familiar smells of wet concrete, ancient grease, and ozone. Out in the void, something clicks and something clunks. A brief, bone-rattling hum. The familiar tingle of scanning fields passing over his body.

"Here we go," Aang murmurs.

Dozens of pulsating lights flare into existence and reveal the massive, sloping shaft that gives entry into the Deep Shire. Spinning beacons of amber and bright crimson line its length. Within moments, the sounds of machinery roaring to life pound against Iroh's eardrums. A titanic cargo elevator – empty but for the steam-cart and its two passengers – begins its slow descent into the labyrinthine subterranean city.

His face awash in gore red and fiery orange, Aang leans back and grins contentedly. "This is gonna be the best day ever," he sighs.


	4. Welcome to the Deep Shire

**Welcome to the Deep Shire**

If one were to go rummaging about the bed of Iroh's steam-cart, amongst the heap of cardboard boxes and paper parcels, one might find an old and fraying knapsack. If one were to go rummaging about this knapsack, one might find an old and fraying personal data device. Scuffed black edges and a tiny crack running down the corner of its screen. A basic device – close to a child's toy. Barely seventy-five terabytes of memory.

If one were to go rummaging about this insignificant little computer, one might find a text file. Its creation date reads some sixty years ago. It appears to be slightly corrupted. It reads like this:

--

**DATE: **14 IYAR, 1220  
**TO: **OZY; SPIRE  
**ROUTING: **BROTHER-I; NODE 15  
**FROM: **IRO; NODE 2  
**SUBJECT: **DEEP SHIRE PRELIM EVALUATION

_Salutations, Brother._

_You wished for more constant updates on my activities, so I present here my early observations of the heretofore-ignored "Deep Shire" facility. I apologize for using this Western letter format, as I know that you prefer Riven glyphs for information transfer. Unfortunately, the blasted voice recognition software on this antique only translates into Western text. Every attempt to rewrite the software's prime code only crashes the device's file browser. I have been sorely tempted to melt the accursed thing into slag on more than one occasion. You would be proud of my forbearance._

_No matter: I hope this does not unduly inconvenience you._

--

There's an irritating, bass-heavy club song coming over the street speakers when they emerge from Zolo's apartment building. One of the men at the door subtly nods his head in time to the drumbeat pulsing scratchy through the air. He drags on a hand-rolled cigarette and regards them from behind round smoked spectacles. One hand hides beneath his ugly gray coat.

Spider nods and smiles ingratiatingly. Sokka does the same – though his smile looks genuine. Dib averts his eyes, quickens his pace, and all but runs into the avenue.

--

_As you are well-aware, the Deep Shire only reappeared to greater Meridian a little under a decade ago. Until this time, the Shire has existed in a state of self-imposed lockdown, cut off from the rest of the world for a period of approximately two-hundred and fifty to three-hundred years. Preliminary research indicates that the region's rulers did not maintain complete quarantine during this period – some records indicate sporadic trade with the coastal enclaves of the Transcendent and with the city of Brii._

_This period of relative isolationism seems to be part of a longer cycle of cultural quarantines dating back to the Shire's initial construction during the Days of Fire. This most recent quarantine is the longest in its history, and was likely spurred by news of the Green Plague that spread from the Toxic Forests in 827 3A. Shorter periods of isolation appear to have occurred at intervals – some lasting less than a year, others spanning two or three generations. This last closed period coincides not only with the Green Plague, but also with the rise of a long-lived authoritarian Shire political dynasty that only collapsed fifteen years ago. Its more reactionary views of outside contact are likely to blame for the extended period of quarantine – as well as the severity of the Plague, of course._

--

The ancient posters grin from alleyway walls, all fading eyes and paper-peeling lips. Masters of the old guard hang heavy with grime and niter. Mold stains their skin and chews away their slogans.

Nothing doing: The bag swings from Spider's shoulder. Cracked black leather with brass clasps. A fine old style. Dib asks what's inside it twice and then stops.

Up the length of the concourse, lunch crowds stumble out of their work-holes and blink irritably in the neon light of day. The three plunge in and out of the throngs like divers through shoals of dull-eyed fish.

--

_Though I will try not to bore you with basics, Brother, I do wish to establish the Shire's early history. The Deep Shire appears to be the last of the large subterranean bunkers built across the Far West by John Stewart the Engineer. We have long known about the many facilities Stewart planned in the days after he renounced his ring of power. I myself had long thought most of them abandoned or overrun by mutants during the ashen first days of the Third Age._

_Indeed, the easternmost portions of the Deep Shire have been abandoned, apparently sealed off for several hundred years. These "Barrow Blocks" comprise about a third of what was initially a hundred-kilometer wide superstructure. Any travel into them is strictly forbidden by Shire law. Initial forays into these old tunnels and concourses indicate that they have long been uninhabitable by Baseline human beings. I myself barely avoided an encounter with a Null Logic Cloud still lingering about the subbasements._

_As ever, Brother, I find myself rambling – almost to the verge of incoherence. Apologies._

_The Deep Shire appears to have been the last of Stewart's projects before his death. The foundations of the facility were sunk approximately 2300 2A and construction proceeded throughout and after the Days of Fire. The last levels were finished about 45 or 50 3A, but I believe that further construction and expansion continued for at least two or three centuries. Since then, the Shire inhabitants have done little to grow their home, preferring fastidious maintenance to any kind of new building._

_So, I can imagine you asking, what about the facility today? Why should we, the Watchers who monitor humanity, care about a closed little society of bunker-folk?_

_For one, the Shire does have a comparatively large population. With the West as empty as it is in these latter days, the Shire represents one of the greater centers of potential commerce and industry. As I indicated in my previous report on Brii's recent stagnation, a possible shift in power may occur if the any other city-state stands up in the Far West. After my recent tours of the Deep Shire, I believe that it may in fact be that city-state._

_Yes, the centuries of relative isolation have made the place feel almost hopelessly quaint by the standards of other Western cities. This is no City of the Winds; this is no Ba Sing Se. But really, what passes for normal and modern in the Third Age is but a sliver in the eye of the wonders that came before the Days of Fire. And before even that . . ._

_My point is that the Deep Shire represents a fairly stable local area in a region that has seen little but upheaval for the past thousand years. Its inhabitants enjoy a decent standard of living. Its industry, while rather basic, is constant and uninterrupted by outside influence. And more than any of that, I _like_ the Deep Shire._

--

After grabbing packs of cigarettes in an incense-soaked little bodega, the three stop to eat at a crowded baker's café. Spider peels bills from a banded wad and slides the money to the cashier with a smirk like a fakir.

They sit outside, Spider and Dib smoking while Sokka digs into fried bread with roasted garlic and olive oil. Each of them devours chunks of spiced goat and tunnel pica, folded in the hot bread like gyros. Spider pulls fitfully at a bottle of beer and belches happily.

--

_Brother, do not give me that look. I know what look it will be, and it has never become anything but frustrating. Remember the mountainous rage that Brother Custer would fly into when you regarded him with that paternal, slightly pitying gaze? Hear me out._

_. . . Or read, as it were._

--

There are whispers among the apartment blocks. The towers flutter with them like birds. The power cables and overhead conduits reverberate to hushed voices.

The air flows hot with the wing beats of gossip and rumor. Housewives lean from windows and half-yell, half-murmur their little stories to neighbors. Schoolchildren slouch among the stairwells and chatter excitedly. They scribble words on walls and in secret corners like portents.

Down-levels, up-levels, across-levels: Words spread. Some important; some unimportant. Jammed tight and breathless, words spread.

--

_The Shire is the first place I have traveled in a long while that has not felt as if it were staring over a precipice. Among the Geneborn of the East, among the Delvers, and even among the Transcendent, I feel as if even the most carefree individuals constantly prepare themselves for disaster._

_And why not? For the greater part of the Third Age, humanity has watched catastrophe after catastrophe beat against its doors. If it was not the spread of the Sea of Corruption, it was the reign of the mutant kings of Coludor. If it was not the War of the Wind, it was the Green Plague. If it was not Rain of Ice and Fire, it was the drought and famine that followed._

_But in the Shire, one gets the sense that none of this ever occurred. The people do not go about their lives in dread as in other cities._

_Certainly, the Shire-folk do not treat things blithely – despite their relative ease and hospitality, men and women of the Deep Shire carry with them a practiced suspicion about all things. This is a society of skeptics, distrustful of both gods and men. Even as the owners of cafes and shops welcome me, I can feel them sizing me up. There is no fear in this – only a kind of low-level paranoia that quickly gives way to open and honest welcome. These are not fearful people, and I find this most refreshing._

_They also brew some very, very fine teas._

--

It comes again: The club beat, _oontz-oontz-oontz_'ing its way over the intercoms and rolling them on their way. At least two of their number find their footsteps guided by it. Even as they dodge about the spilled intestines of a dead dog left in the middle of the street, the music makes time. There is a rhythm in the air – a heartbeat.

A constabulary wagon rushes down the concourse. Its engine chugs and spits like a cracked kettle. Its siren howls and reverberates up in the unseen steel web of the distant rafters. Dib stops, flinches, and then turns to watch the car disappear around a corner. The sweat on his face catches the light of a nearby shop sign and turns to luminescent blood.

Two bored-looking children emerge from an apartment stoop. One of them holds a broken antenna in a pale hand. The other, dark-skinned and wiry, stares on as her companion pokes the dog's corpse in its exposed guts.

The three young men watch with varying levels of disgust and amusement. After a moment, the group proceeds toward the main lifts. Down-level. Downtown.

--

_The Deep Shire itself consists of five subterranean levels, each separated by about fifty meters of shafts, ventilation tunnels, and pure ceramicrete shielding. The topmost level houses the machinery necessary for the continued survival of the Shire – machine shops, power plants, and materials caches enough to last several of the facility's lifetimes. This level boasts the heaviest security, patrolled by volunteer militia and old-model military automata._

_The second level of the Shire is largely industrial – factories, forges, and the like. The center of repair and invention, such as it is. The Deep Shire has only one nanoreactor that I could discover, producing the vast majority of the factories' raw materials. The reactor was heavily guarded, and I dared not risk the ire of the entire city to approach it. So far as I can tell, its nanite control system is old but solid, with more than enough shielding and internal firewall security to prevent tampering. I will have to investigate further, but I believe that it should not cause us any worries._

_Commercial and residential centers are scattered throughout the third and fourth levels of the Shire. The population lives either in massive apartment blocks (of varying and sometimes ill-maintained condition) or in humorously anachronistic "suburbs" located on the fourth level. These pre-Third Age neighborhoods are truly a sight to behold, Brother – white fences, lawns, and covered porches. The Shire's upper and merchant classes stick to these kinds of dwellings, despite the obvious absurdity of their layout and efficiency. _

_Lawns, Ozzie! By the VALAR . . ._

_The fifth and lowest level contains a mélange of industry, environmental treatment facilities, a prison, and even a largely-defunct mining operation that I suspect was made obsolete by the city's nanoreactor. It was through the bottom level that I gained access to the Barrow Blocks._

--

Into the empty, now.

They walk through endless twilight, three stick-figure sketches under the rows of arc sodium lamps. Footsteps and splashes. A reek of engine grease and old promises. Out in the expanse of towering concrete pillars, a power line sparks and sputters.

--

_It's impossible to know an exact number, but a combination of out-of-date records and wild guessing places the Shire's population at about two to three million. The current government is an oligarchic council, supposedly elected by neighborhood political committees. One gets a feeling that the people of the Shire extend their innate skepticism to the very idea of government – apparently, those old enough to remember the previous regime are still bitter about its excesses. If I were to guess, local political control centers largely in the hands of business, unions, and some criminal elements. Not exactly a prime candidate for a Far Western political power, but you and I both know that stranger things have happened._

_I see that my time grows short, Brother – I have a most interesting appointment to uphold. I apologize for forgetting this: It seems that the guild that runs the Shire nanoreactor is actually headed by an exiled family of Delvers. One of their number has agreed to meet with me, having heard of my reputation from my recent journeys amongst the Steel Islands. I hope to learn even more about the Shire, its politics, and its people in the next few days. As ever, I will keep you informed when I can. If you see him, give my regards to Brother Elijah. Tell him that he would like it here._

_Long days and pleasant nights,_

_-Iroh-_

--

As all the phantom colors of strange and terrible dreams splash across his face, Iroh thinks upon that data file. He thinks about the days that followed, and then the adventures that followed that. He thinks about meeting Jiraiya. He thinks, suddenly and rather unexpectedly, about riddles in the dark.

Now, why would he think about a thing like that?

His eyes narrow. A gust of stale, dust-stinking-wind pushes across the platform. Odd.

On scaffolding arranged about the edge of the shaft, four towering war automata scan the cargo elevator with dead red eyes as it passes. Aang jumps from the cab of the steam-cart, all nervous energy and white teeth. He dashes to the edge of the descending platform and stares into the oncoming dark.


	5. Old Friends

**Old Friends**

The tents and pavilions go up under the artificial afternoon sun. Light – but no real heat – pours across the workers' shoulders. They sweat almost out of obligation, rather than need. If they look up, they see not a single sun, but near a dozen – the gigantic spotlight-stars high in the rafters of the Deep Shire's fourth level. Great perpetual devices that simulate the feel of sunlight and give its benefits. No rickets here in the Shire. No sir. No sky, either.

Across the wide park, the work crew pushes and pulls and strains against the rising structures, setting joints and nailing stakes and unspooling guide wires like steel ligaments. A pair of reedy volunteers stands atop step ladders and strings a banner from one light pole to another. Little by little, "HAPPY BIRTHDAY JIRAIYA!" appears on bright crepe paper. Other such slogans will unfurl as the afternoon goes on. For now, the workers and relatives and various hangers-on usher the party through its fetal stages, looking to every tent and folding table with expectations of a fine night to come.

--

About a Deep Shire home, there are certain things that one can always expect to see. Furniture of a style more functional than aesthetically pleasing. Stiff carpet in the living areas; false tile in the kitchen and washrooms. A copper kettle atop the stove. An old squat refrigerator and accompanying icebox – some still sporting locks, even long after the food shortages that helped topple the old regime. Homespun blankets on beds and the backs of sofas. A liquor cabinet half-empty and dusty with disuse. Full bookshelves, also dusty with disuse. A small corner shrine to the Old Gods – almost always perfunctory.

Jiraiya's home on the fourth level of the Deep Shire contains . . . _some _of these things.

Yes, the spotless kitchen and clean floors would pass muster. So would the great quantity of polished, antique furniture. All else, though, tends to raise Shire eyebrows.

Pile upon pile of dog-eared books, resting in corners and up against the legs of chairs. Telltale smudges of incense ash on table corners. Upon the walls are paintings of ambiguous and certainly _suggestive_ quality. In the living room, the glass liquor cabinet towers like a shrine to a decidedly more raucous sort of god. Its empty bottle children line the tops of kitchen cabinets. Above the commode sit tiny statues of frogs, toads, and fertility goddesses from the far corners of Meridian. Pervasive smells of foreign cooking abound.

At the northeastern corner of the house sits a small study, walls lined with bookshelves and floors festooned with paper. Above a squat desk, a copper-inlaid clock stares out on the room. Steam rises from a mug waiting on the edge of the desk. Beside it, a brass flask leans uncapped and eager.

Jiraiya sits staring at a blank page – at the thin blue lines and the empty white spaces between. His pen hovers above the paper like a half-hearted threat. He blinks. The clock on the den wall ticks the seconds by with blind precision.

The pen falls and touches the notebook. A flat wet blob of blue ink spreads from its tip and spreads through the pulp. A moment, a breath, a flicker of the eyes: Jiraiya's pen moves through the fine white space under and over the lines.

_Of course_, he writes_, it was completely understandable that spore masks were in such short supply. The Sea of Corruption had, in fact, reached the peak of its ten-year pollination cycle. The fungi were in bloom and their spores drifted skyward in great and strangely beautiful clouds. As close as the people of Tran Dome were to the edge of the toxic forests, it was no surprise that they were loath to part with even the spare protection they had in storage._

He pauses, thinking. Pressed against the page, the pen leaks forth another irregular blue dot. No more than a minute passes. Jiraiya's hand moves. The past moves with it.

_Two days into our stay within the dome, Uchiha was becoming more and more impatient. Iroh, ever the statesman, calmly told our friend that a way across the forests would soon present itself. And so . . ._

. . . And so, what?

Jiraiya sighs. He raps a big knuckle against the wood of the desk. His fingers snake out to bring the hot mug to his lips. Strong coffee, flavored lightly with whiskey. Not _expensive _whiskey – no sir – but good. Good coffee and good whiskey. He licks his lips and looks back upon the slowly-filling page.

A sound: Low, solid, staccato.

Jiraiya tenses.

The clock ticks; the clock tocks.

The sound comes again, from behind Jiraiya – out past the living room and the front hall. It repeats. A light, polite knocking at Jiraiya's door.

Though bereft of immediate family, Jiraiya has found himself increasingly plagued by a growing number of aunts, cousins, second cousins, and claimed relations of dubious origin. Their comings and goings have grown more frequent leading up to today – oh, this day of days. Bloody, twice-damned birthday. Thrice-damned, leeching cousins. Where were you when I was passing out in doorways with a bottle of methyl spirits in one hand?

The knock comes again.

"Bastards!" Jiraiya growls. He rises from his chair, pauses, and listens to the light, determined hand tapping on his door. His legs are in motion before he can even think about it.

He told them – _told them!_ – not to disturb him until the party. Though the party itself was fine – ever so fine – the logistics of setting up and running the damned thing can go to hell. If it were up to Jiraiya, he would spend his eighty-eighth birthday in largely the same fashion as many previous birthdays: A quiet dinner with Aang, and then a night hopping from bar to pub. Preferably end it in someone else's bed, snuggled between bosoms like diremelons.

His fury peaking, Jiraiya thunders through the intervening rooms, into the front hall, and yanks open the front door.

"What, goddamn it?!"

He blinks. His anger goes out like an extinguished match.

On the doorstep is not one of the legion of grasping cousins-removed or withered, distant aunts. Instead, a man in voluminous red robes stands with arms crossed, his expression as calm and beatific as a saint. Between the gray fronds of his meticulously-groomed beard, the lips of Iroh the Red curl into a pleased grin.

--

Aang wanders.

After bidding Iroh farewell at the entrance to the Shire's fourth level, he took to the streets without a destination in mind. The cracked sidewalk passes beneath his feet slab after slab. He enters a district of buzzing shops and apartment blocks, webbed together with pipes and swaying wires.

Though he smiles gently to himself, the curve of his back and the hands jammed into his pockets speak to the disquiet suddenly stirring about his brain.

He wonders if Dib is home – sprawled out on a couch or bed, face buried in whatever book he has his damp hands on at the moment. Sokka is almost certainly out and about, putting wheels to pavement or cruising library stacks or flirting with passing girls on street corners. And Spider? Aang can safely write Spider off until this evening, when he will inevitably arrive at Jiraiya's party sweaty and smelling of shenanigans.

No matter. Nameless thoughts careen through Aang's skull, half-formed and irritating. As he walks, he reaches lithe fingers under his headband and scratches at the section of tattooed skin beneath. He curses himself for losing the excitement and enthusiasm he felt when he first saw Iroh and his cart chugging down the old roads. Foolish. You're a mess, Aang. A foolish, easily-addled mess.

He should have seen this coming. It seems that every time he travels to the surface, the heady rush of the sky and clouds and open air slides back into confused, confusing thoughts. Galling, uncomfortable emotions. A longing, deep in the fibers of his arms and legs, that he can neither understand nor satisfy. Even on the cusp of such a mad celebration as Jiraiya's birthday, Aang finds himself unable to quantify what can only be described as a tidal wave of nervous depression.

What is it? His wan smile gives way to a grimace. What is it about the world beyond the Deep Shire that fills him with such indescribable feelings? He was born out there, of course. Perhaps . . . No. That's silly. That's absurd.

So, he walks. Aang walks, and shuffles, and sidles, and plods, and eventually turns back toward the park where he knows Jiraiya's relatives will need a helping hand. A glimmer of hope stirs within him – the return of the wild promise of a night unbound.

--

Iroh is a short man. Granted, Jiraiya has always been big, and beside him even the tall feel slightly dwarfish. Even so, one cannot deny that Iroh is not the sort to immediately turn heads upon entering a room. He stands several inches lower than the average man.

Short, yes, Jiraiya reflects. Short but solid. When he first came sauntering through Jiraiya's apartment door some fifty years ago, Jiraiya mistook him for a crazed, pot-bellied derelict fresh off the street. It was only when Jiraiya stopped and examined Iroh in full that a sensation approaching awe bloomed within him.

Beneath the gray beard and ingratiating, quaint mannerisms, the old wizard's skin is smooth and lineless. He has cheerful dark eyes that Jiraiya knows full well can flare hot amber in the dark. Under those billowing robes, Iroh's seemingly-shapeless body is actually as strong as an auroch. A sharp chin; a cunning brow. When he speaks, his voice rolls rough and soothing as a river.

"Hello, Jiraiya!" Iroh smiles. "Happy birthday!" He crosses the threshold, ducking under Jiraiya's outstretched arm and into the front hallway. Fat paper packages bulge under each of his arms.

Jiraiya feels his lips move, fishlike, and then sputters, "Iroh! Holy hell, man!" He sweeps down and embraces the man at his side. Iroh's eyes bug out. His grin grows toothy and unrestrained.

They disengage the hug and Iroh waddles wordlessly into the living room. He sets his parcels next to the nearest couch and announces, "I have other things to unload, but those can wait for now. Mostly amusements for tonight's party, along with a few souvenirs I thought you might enjoy." He regards Jiraiya with sly eyes. "You look surprised to see me, old friend. Has Aang at long last discovered how to keep a secret?"

He can't help it: Jiraiya laughs, more than half in astonishment. "So, he was in on it? And here I thought he wanted to stay as far away from the details of this little farce as I have!" He takes a deep, dust-scented breath and realizes that he's grinning despite himself. "Clever little monkey. I might make something of him yet." Sniff. "To answer your question, I _suspected _you might come. Hoped, maybe. But as busy as you've been . . ."

Iroh waves a hand. "Pfah. Busy? Me? No, no. How can I miss the eighty-eighth birthday of a fine friend? And when have I ever missed a chance to impose upon your hospitality? Speaking of which, do you have any of that delightful mint-taro tea?"

The light slopes through the windows and summons copper mischief in Iroh's eyes.

"I do!" Jiraiya beams. "I'll go and put a kettle on. But – well – don't you think this calls for something better? Something stronger? I have just the thing. Many things, actually, but I'm certain I'll be able to find the right one."

"No, but thank you kindly. Tea will do."

"Are you sure you don't want to join me in a belt of scotch?"

"No, no. Truth be told, I've been looking forward to a spot of Shire tea."

And so they pass through the kitchen, trailing small talk, and make tea. They retire to the afternoon-soaked den. Iroh sips his tea with a contented look on his face.

"So," Iroh purrs, "I take it you are less excited than one might think about your impending birthday party?"

"Gods." Jiraiya sits down at his desk and takes a gulp of tepid, spiked coffee. It does little to relieve the sudden tension in his neck and shoulders. "Don't get me wrong, Iroh. I've not gone soft on you. I'm not one to shy away from a good celebration. It's these relatives, Iroh!" He brushes calloused fingers over the surface of the desk "They come up from the woodwork in their dozens, every one of them all but drooling at getting a piece of inheritance pie. They scuttle, Iroh. Scuttle like beetles waiting for a corpse to go lukewarm." Jiraiya chuckles and runs a hand through hair that's been snow white since he was thirty. "Do I look like a man about to die? Of course not. I'm fit as a goddamn fiddle. It's the whiskey and ninja training. I plan on living to be a thousand."

Iroh smiles thinly and nods.

"So, yes. I have not been looking forward to tonight. Though I must admit," he takes a gulp of coffee that sets his throat tingling, "the opportunities for, ah, _research_, will be fine and numerous."

Iroh's eyes rove to the open pages and inked words upon the desk. Jiraiya reaches down and closes the cover of the spiral notebook with a thin _snap_.

"Hmm?" Iroh raises his eyebrows. "Ah. Still writing pornography, I see."

Jiraiya coughs, shakes his head, and chuffs, "No, no. Nothing of the – hey, wait." He jabs a finger in Iroh's direction. "Pornography? _Pornography_? How many times do I have to tell you? It's _erotica_. I write erotica. Titillation for the discerning reader. All very classy stuff."

Iroh produces a single, barking chuckle. "Ah, yes. As I recall, _Big Butt Paradise _was an _extremely _classy little book. Especially that scene with the –"

Waving a dismissive hand, Jiraiya stutters, "Hey. Hey hey hey. That was, uh, a limited release. Something to tide me over between ideas."

It is, in fact, one of Jiraiya's favorites from within his own stable of work. He sometimes reads the scene in question with a carafe of hot wine at hand, laughing and blushing like a schoolboy, hardly able to believe that he wrote such a thing.

"How a man like you ever came into such a trade continues to elude me," Iroh muses. There is gentle good humor in his voice.

"Oh, you know how it was," Jiraiya sighs. "I came back from the Lonely War slightly rich and very tired of fighting. At first, I just wanted to write down what I had seen and done all those years in the East. I didn't really even know how to start. So I just wrote something based on the –"

"You mean the –"

"Yeah."

"In the Lire Dome?"

"Oh yeah." Jiraiya is sure that the glint off his teeth is blinding.

"Ah ha. I wondered if that first book had, ahm, _factual _elements in it." Iroh chuckles. "As ever, being an incorrigible pervert pays off for you. You're a very lucky man."

"Damn straight!" Jiraiya laughs. "I'm rather proud of this 'pornography' of mine. If I didn't use a pseudonym, my name would be spoken the world over! Why, just last month a far-trader told me that, while in Ba Sing Se, he had seen a little print shop reproducing copies of _Naughty Paradise_ in the language of that city!" Jiraiya shrugs, but also nods approvingly. "Of course, I'm a little irritated that I won't ever see any money from that little venture. But at least these little 'dirty books' are known far and wide, eh? Eh?"

Sip. "Mmm. Good tea. As ever. And yes, I too have seen your fine little tomes far and wide. The Delvers of the Coal Straits colonies sell them wrapped in black paper. It's most amusing." Sip. "What is this new one about, pray tell? Are you finally going to tie up the loose threads left dangling at the end of _Lusty Paradise_, perhaps?"

"I knew you were a fan, you old lech."

"Oh, I read your work for its fine use of dialect and blunt, stream-of-consciousness description."

Jiraiya smirks. "I'll pass that along to my editor. It might make a good pull quote." The smile vanishes. Jiraiya feels his hand drift into his left trouser pocket. His index finger brushes cool metal. "If you must know, this is . . . I'm finally writing those memoirs. It only took thirty years to get back to it, but I'm just doing it."

Nodding approvingly, Iroh says, "How far back do you intend to go?"

"The current draft opens with you charging through my door to scare me out of a hangover. You know, before a dozen Uchihas and their retainers came to my apartment to do light drugs and make grand, stupid plans."

Jiraiya thinks. He can't help it; he's always been a thinker, a ruminator, a ponderer. Even as a young thug, slinking through alleyways and shaking down rival bangers for loose change, his mind was constantly adrift. Even while laughing-drunk or ogling shapely forms in twilit windows or in the middle of the act of love, Jiraiya's thoughts have a habit of wandering.

Even as he continues, outlining the current structure of his autobiography to Iroh, his inner eyes and ears and nose slip over the texture of his past. He remembers the day that he first met Iroh as the technomancer came like a jolly bull through his door. He remembers the sorry state of his apartment – littered with cigarette ash, beer bottles, food crumbs, and the husks of a dozen discarded identities. He remembers the myriad stinks of spoiled food, vomit, empty sex, and despair. Gods, what a time! How Iroh managed to make the place presentable before the night's prophetic gathering never ceases to amaze.

Thoughts of the past are always perilous for Jiraiya. He knows it. They have an ugly predictability to them; a turning that always seems to pass the same landmarks and end up in the same destinations.

So, with the reliability of dusty clockwork, his thoughts turn to Tsunade.

Their eyes first met over the scuffed felt of a pool table. Dark brown on flinty, earthen gray. The drunken confidence of a brash street kid meeting the haughty arrogance of a made man's daughter. He was handsome; she was gorgeous. They danced through each others' social circles for weeks until he was finally able to exchange even a word with her.

Oh, gods. What days those were. What long-dead days. Those were the days of the old regime's death spasms. Hungry days. Days of fire and barricades and the disintegration of the old mob families. Jiraiya remembers. He remembers pulling Tsunade into an alleyway as men in red scarves retreated through the streets. He remembers the oily stink of improvised firebombs and the choking pall of smoke that lay over the Deep Shire for almost a week after. He remembers her on his doorstep, the tracks of tears through the layer of soot on her face. _My father is dead_, she murmured, and collapsed in his arms.

In the face of it all, they persisted. They survived. His old compatriots died one by one, but he survived. Her family and its retainers were forced from power, but she survived. The old ways of the Shire collapsed and burned as Jiraiya and Tsunade fell in love.

Gods, how he had loved her. Her soft hair and hard eyes and sharp tongue and quick, clever mind.

And oh, how she could keep up with him! Drink for drink and barb for barb. She surprised even his own appetites – as when she had greeted him at the apartment door with her friend Shizune at her elbow, wearing nothing but thin robes and mischief on their lips. _Come on, lover. Let's see how good you are at multitasking._

They were happy. He is sure that they were happy.

Then, there came a series of pale days. The electricity in her eyes dimmed with pain. They – the doctors – said the cancer started in the ovaries and spread quickly, like wildfire. Suddenly it was everywhere it shouldn't be, and money was tight, and it barely mattered anyway because of supply shortages.

Though his lips still move ("I think I can shed light on that aspect of things without Fugaku's sons getting too huffy, don't you agree?"), Jiraiya remembers. He remembers holding her thin hand in the antiseptic light of a Third Level hospital. He remembers her saying, _I'm not going to die, dummy. I'll spit in the bastard's face if he comes for me. He'll leave holding his testicles in his hands_.

By the time Tsunade died three weeks later, Jiraiya was sure he was never going to feel anything ever again. He was thirty-one years old.

Jiraiya fell away from the life he had built. He drank too much. He tried being a drug addict for a while, but that turned out to be not nearly as interesting as the stories all said. When he was offered a pity job as a security guard at the Deep Shire's nanoreactor, he had no higher goals in life than getting drunk as cheaply as possible and drowning out the roaring silence of the hole in his heart.

That was how he found himself in that filthy little apartment. That was how he found himself blinking in the pseudo-light of morning, looking down at the weird little man on his doorstep. That was how Iroh came into his life and filled it with adventure.

How long ago that was. How short a time it seems.

"Jiraiya?"

"Hm?"

"You stopped talking. Trailed off. Are you all right?"

Jiraiya nods. "Oh, yes. Just . . . remembering. Old times. The bad old days, I suppose." He stands. Again, he finds his hand falling. He finds his finger touching the metallic curve hidden in his pocket.

"Why don't I continue while we unload some of those packages?" Jiraiya says with a smile. "That fake, fake sun feels mighty inviting, and we have a party to prepare for. Yes. A party to _remember_."

Both he and Iroh laugh, as only men who have known each other for decades can.

--

Where was I born?

It is a question he asks often, but to which neither Jiraiya nor Iroh have been able to give a satisfactory answer. _In the East_, they say, and leave it at that.

Aang looks up twin lengths of chain to the top of the rusty swing set. Out in the park, volunteers and workers scurry like cockroaches.

Maybe that's it. Maybe some part of him yearns for the far-off land of his birth . . . Wherever that is. Maybe. It can't be that simple, can it?

The nameless, scrabbling sensation itches at him. It burns.

Aang squints. Across the expanse of bright green and brown, a black-clad figure lurches between tents and dodges about sullen workmen. The dimming light glints off large glasses. Dib. Aang rises from the swing and allows himself a smile.

Come on, Aang. Let it go. Leave it be. There are some things you just need to forget. Some things shouldn't be poked. He forces the thoughts out of his mind – or, tries to at least. They remain like the clicking of strange insects, waiting in the dark.

--

Down on the fifth level of the Shire, the world sits perpetually in shadow and it always seems to be very late. Very late indeed.

Spider and Sokka stand in the jaundiced light of a vacant alleyway. Spider stubs a cigarette out on a brick wall and makes a face that reminds Sokka of a rabid dog he once saw.

The deed is done; the package passed to a dead-eyed man standing like a fat silhouette in an office door. The man rummaged through the pockets of oily overalls and handed Spider a plastic bag containing what appeared to be shriveled chunks of old fruit. Spider sniffed at it warily before nodding and taking off into the gloom. Dib took two long, increasingly-tight looks at it and then confessed to a forgotten need to be elsewhere. Anywhere, probably. Spider will forgive his cowardice, in time. He's sure of it.

Now, he holds the baggie out reverently. "Cactus buttons," he intones. "No better way to spend a night, or so I'm told."

Sokka scratches the back of his head. "So, will these –?"

"Make us hallucinate our goddamn heads off? You bet your ass, Sokka mah boy. As your future journalist friend, I advise that we hit this shit."

"Wait." Sokka leans back a moment, stroking his chin. "Do you think that it'll be okay for us to go to Jiraiya's party tripping balls? Isn't that against, ah, _decorum_?"

"Sokka, my friend," Spider laughs, "decorum does not just permit that we go to this party on hallucinogens. It _demands _it."


	6. A Long Awaited Party

**A Long-Awaited Party**

As is their custom, Iroh and Jiraiya settle in for a smoke before the party. They lounge in fraying lawn chairs and watch the rafter lights do a decent, if not gaudy, approximation of a sunset.

Iroh sips at his long clay pipe with the grace of a veteran. For Jiraiya, the puffs upon blown glass come harder and harsher, as if passing through a thick borderland that Iroh has long since mastered and made his personal domain. He coughs and grins and makes sweeping gestures.

They exchange idle talk. Plans, travels, distant memories. Jiraiya speaks through his mild buzz of times long past and times yet to come. His eyes fix on the steel horizon, or perhaps somewhere beyond it.

--

The set-up within Ben Tennyson Memorial Park ("True Hero and Martyr of the Revolution," reads the tastefully-placed plaque) is thus:

White-walled pavilions encircle the raised central bandstand, some big and some small. The tents are filled to capacity with long tables and folding chairs. Between the pavilions and the stage sits an empty space, dotted with a few lonely round tables. Space enough for mingling, eating, and perhaps a bit of dancing come the break of simulated stars. Streamers, banners, and foil balloons flap from every available pole and stable surface.

Aang and Dib watch the band set up from the deepening shade of one of the dining tents. After helping string blue and green lights along the edge of the bandstand, each feels that he has done his allotted duty for the time being. Aang perches like a fascinated cat; Dib slouches limp-legged in a chair with a cup of pirated punch in one hand and a cigarette in the other.

Onstage, a man with hair dangling over his eyes plucks a few offhand chords on a stand-up bass. A moment later, feedback yowls through speakers as a technician fumbles with the microphones.

Caterers hurry back and forth between the rows of tables. Steam trays and serving dishes wrapped in plastic clatter against white tablecloths. Towers of paper plates. Monuments of napkins. Seas of cutlery. The smells of roast meat, vinegar-drenched salads, and spicy sauces begin to waft through the tent.

Dib points to the stage with his cigarette. "This is going to suck," he sighs.

"What?" Aang sputters. "I helped set this whole thing up! It's the biggest party to happen in the Shire in years! What's wrong with you?"

Blinking, Dib says, "Huh? Wait, wait. Not the _party_. I mean the band."

"I set that up too, you know. Had to find them, work out the contract . . ."

"Whatever. It's not an insult. It's just, uh, hardly ideal. The band, I mean. Oldschool, loud, folk-punk crap."

"It's my uncle's favorite pub band, Dib. He goes out of his way to see them."

"Doesn't mean I have to like it, right?"

Aang shakes his head in wonder. "Do you _ever _just lean back and enjoy yourself?"

"I _am _leaning back and enjoying myself."

"While criticizing the band I hired."

Dib shrugs. Ash crumbles off his cigarette and momentarily shimmers, suspended, in the duskglow. "Just sayin'."

Aang laughs the laugh of exasperated friendship. His fingers trace unseen patterns on the alabaster tablecloth. "How can such a hipster be such a dork at the same time?" Before Dib can whine a response, Aang springs from his feline crouch and starts off toward the tent's exit. "People are about to arrive. I'm gonna go help my uncle greet people as they come in. You want to come?"

Dib shakes his head.

"Suit yourself. Don't overexert yourself, huh?"

A foul look and an obscene gesture hurry Aang on his way.

--

As the suns fade out and the lights of the fourth level blink on one by one, the guests begin to arrive. They come at first in ones and twos, then in clumps of four or five, and then in their dozens. Most are from the Shire proper – old friends, neighbors, distant relatives with wide grins and dull eyes. Some wear the long coats and shaved heads currently in fashion in Brii. Aang sees a pair of pale, red-eyed Delver men among the arrivals, bowing to Jiraiya as if greeting a potentate.

Jiraiya stands at the entrance to the park, greeting each newcomer with handshakes and a slightly pained smile. A big, broad-shouldered man in a cream-colored suit and red tie. Below his dress clothes, black sandals of the sort one wears in high summer. A shock of hair so white it looks like a crystallized cloud formation.

The guests fan out into the park as the band finishes tuning its instruments. A hammerflute trills; the bass thrums a few deep chords; drums fall into a quick little rhythm; a guitar ripples notes like sad old memories; the lead singer approaches the microphone and growls out a quiet, contemplative take on "That Old Bright Bastard." The guests' tempo falls into step with the roll and fall of the music. Their thoughts are carried on the backs of the lyrics. Some begin to dance tentatively, awkward and brightly embarrassed, out on the open grass.

--

Spider and Sokka amble into the park, fashionably late. Both have changed clothes and cleaned up in the hours since their quest down-levels. A loose blue suit now hangs from Sokka's body, the coat sleeves turned up and the shirt left unbuttoned to his chest. His hair is combed and slicked back, dark and shining.

A tar-colored tie sits about Spider's throat like a noose. The collar of his shirt is starched hard as a castle battlement.

Both young men linger at the park gates, peering in as if into some bizarre limbo beyond their fathoming.

"Dude," Sokka whispers, "I'm not feeling anything. Do you think . . .?"

"That we got duped?" Spider hisses. "I'm in a foul-enough mood already. Don't plant dangerous ideas in my head."

Suddenly, a white and red wall looms above both of them. A huge arm detaches from it and something strong as old stone grasps Sokka's hand.

"Gentlemen!" Jiraiya purrs.

Neither Sokka nor Spider is at all short. All the same, both of them have to crane their necks slightly to look Jiraiya in his sharp eyes.

"It's great to see you here!" Jiraiya says. "Very fine indeed!"

Feeling all the more childlike, the two young men mumble, "Happy birthday, Master Monogatari. Thank you for inviting us."

"Pfft! None of that, now. You're not kids anymore, dropping by to ask if Aang can come out to play up-levels. No sir!" Jiraiya slaps Spider on the shoulder, and the blow threatens to bowl him over. "Call me 'Jiraiya.' That will do."

A distant look comes over the old man's features. "Yeah," he says. "That'll do just fine, for now. Aang's gone off to the buffet, I think."

"Thank you, sir," Sokka croaks.

"Jiraiya."

"Thank you, Jiraiya."

"Better. I'll train you yet."

Two pairs of bumbling legs shuffle their owners on their way. Jiraiya's arm shoots out again like a crossing barricade. Spider makes a sound like he's just found a large knife pointed at his face.

"As a note," Jiraiya says lowly, "even though I'm not running this little shindig, you have my permission to get wasted tonight. Just keep in mind that if you do anything to embarrass me or endanger my nephew, I will beat you both so hard that your ancestors will feel it." The big man grins. "Now run along, and have fun!"

They do run along, as if a pale devil is at their heels.

--

Cups fill; queues form and snake out of the dining tents. The multitudes laugh and chatter as they line up before the long tables of food and drink. They heap plates with hot grits and fried taro and savory goat so tender they can cut it with butter knives. Potato crisps dusted with ginger and dried chilies. Flatbread, garlicky poached eel, and onion salad. Thick slices of melon (in water, dire, and blue varieties). Pulled pork with mustard sauce. A half-dozen desserts ranging from spiced cake to shaved ice soaked in citrus syrup.

Two kegs of locally-brewed Fancy Dan Porter! Bottles and cans of lager! Barrels of cold, sour Shire wine! A glittering skyline of hard liquor bottles, their contents dark and tempting as the sea! Ice overflowing the edges of buckets! A hundred raised plastic cups!

Through it all, Jiraiya threads his way in and out of the bustling throng. In his hand is a glass of this or that, seemingly never empty. His eyes roam implike over the shapes of women and pause to brighten with each familiar face.

--

They are around the beer cooler, at the edge of the buffet tent, when the drugs begin to take hold.

It starts as a buzzing in the fingers and toes, grows in intensity, and shivers down the arms to hum in the shoulder blades. The face numbs; the movements stiffen; the pupils dilate. The night fills with a sort of misty twinkle.

"Hold on," Spider says. "I think I'm feeling it." He fumbles forward, grips the edge of a table, and then swoops a hand down to grab a can of beer. Each movement is momentous. Each touched object draws cool lightning across his skin. He yanks back the ring-pull on the can ("Ba Sing Se Bitter") and takes a slug of warmish lager. Amazing.

Something flutters in his peripheral vision.

"Coming on pretty strong here, Sokka ol' pal." Spider whistles. "Sokka?" He looks up. "Say something, you skunk-ape."

But Sokka has vanished. He's nowhere to be seen. He's gone.

"Oh gods," Spider murmurs. Another sip of strong lager, like liquid tin in the back of his throat.

A pair of porcelain-blue eyes opens on the side of the beer can. They blink sullenly, and then close. Spider blinks back.

Oh no.

--

"So."

"Yes?"

"What of it?"

"I can't even begin to know what you're getting at."

"Oh, come now. Come on, old boy. We _know_. At least we _think _we know. Best to just come out and say it. Why not? It can't hurt anything. It's your eighty-eighth birthday, for gods' sake!"

Jiraiya lets the question hang in the air. He sips his drink and enjoys the heady tingle it spills across his tongue. Finally, he says to the man before him: "I really have no idea what you're talking about." A glance outside. The siren-call of the dance space filling with revelers.

Exasperated: "Come off it! We know that – well – that it's _you_. _You _are the one getting some kind of royalty –"

A wave of the hand. "Now, now. Where I get my money from is nothing to be discussing at a time –"

"That's not the point!"

"Sure it is," Jiraiya lies. "Sure it is."

His finger slides down and caresses cool metal.

--

Coming on _very _strong. Very fast.

Glittering gold lettering floats above a black sea that spills from the tables. It dissolves the clothing of those it touches and renders their forms bright, blurry, and unpleasant to look at. He feels his legs go rubbery when they touch the dark liquid.

Toxic. Toxic water. Crap. _Shit_. This is serious.

Spider laughs. No, it's not serious. Not at all. It's a party. He's high and it's a party. He's hallucinating a bit and it's a party. He wipes a pall of sweat away from his face and wonders if he can navigate this godforsaken black water to one of the long tables with their desperately wonderful spreads of food. He wonders if –

Suddenly, he smells something burning. He sniffs. He smells _someone_ burning. The certainty of this is so overpowering that it feels like a divine revelation. Crisping skin and bubbling fat. Like . . . like pork. Like the kind of hog roast he never had while growing up, catching and eating the geckos that swarmed about the Half-End Housing Projects.

People smell like that when they burn to death. They smell like holiday roasts, set out hot and dripping from the oven. They smell like curls of crispy, delicious skin and pools of liquid fat.

Spider Jerusalem looks about, panicked, and feels the sudden urge to vomit.

Someone is dying by fire and all around him are uncaring faces, smiling. He stumbles through them. The black water sucks at his ankles. It stinks of rot. It stinks of gecko droppings. It it it ohhh God it's coming on hard now. Harder than –

Across the park, blue lights dance and shiver like ghosts. He counts them: One, two, three . . . His hand shakes at his side. Breathing ragged as torn construction paper. Nine lights. Nine blue circles. Nine blue-white circles of construction paper. Nine blue-white rings of construction paper, their centers hollow and black as empty graves.

Have to get out. _Have to get out_. Sputtering numb lips. Dropped beer can – anemic, urine-yellow leaking out into the venomous swamp beneath his feet –

He runs, bumps, and jabbers an apology. Man in corpse's suit. Face like something found floating in a sewage drain. A moan of acknowledgement. It's all Spider can do to beat back the screams. He lopes through the white opening and out into the starry swimming evening.

Bass-beats like a tribal call-to-arms slam against his eardrums. They flow together in a single earthquake roar. He shuffles and stumbles over the rippling lawn. Falls down. Slumps against the warm grass. Groans as the sound of splintering earth drowns out every thought and feeling.

Claws. Claws thrust through the ground and grope at the sky. Something below them begins to speak in a dead language – a language like the awful clank of ten-million machines. Factory whispers – foundry laughter – oh – a slow piston song that gives way, it it it – oh!

Spider scrambles up onto his knees.

The machines scream now, and their dead gray and black arms tear free, rising like monuments to a brutal nightmare age. An ossuary of thought. A Golgotha of sensation. They chant like iron children, burning the last corpse-fuel of the world.

"Fuck!" Spider rasps.

--

Meanwhile, Sokka has a rather pleasant conversation with a light pole.

--

Aang cannot even begin to understand his earlier melancholy. He stuffed himself full of salad and melons and a monstrous helping of red bean custard, and even allowed himself a bit of the fried taro. Probably cooked in hog fat, yes, but the world is a cruel, strange place and such things are far from his mind tonight. He drank cup after cup of punch until Jiraiya spiked it with a bottle of something with Delver writing on the label. A liquid red and redolent of anise. Aang took a cup of the concoction to Jiraiya's chortling approval, only to dump it into the grass after the first throat-burning gulp.

And now, Aang darts bloat-bellied through the loosening crowd. The park lights cast a thin yellow glow over the partiers' wan faces. Crooked teeth flash at his passing. Raised cups and words of praise follow in his wake. "Good work tonight, Aang!" "Hell of a party!" "Oh, come and dance, Aang my boy!"

He heard that Sokka and Spider arrived some time ago, but he's yet to find either of them. Probably off in some secret corner of the park, a hoard of purloined beer at their feet, that familiar triumphant laughter on their lips. No matter: He'll run into them eventually.

Aang smiles, pauses in his headlong run through the masses, and looks up to the bright lights of the bandstand. The hammerflute player – a wiry blonde youth who looks to have a bit of Delver in him – kicks across the stage like a maniac. The band pounds out a frenetic drinking ballad. Around Aang, the crowd swings hips and throws elbows in time to the lunatic beat. His calves twitch in desperate anticipation.

A flash of red among the dancers; wide green eyes; a black dress of the sort one knows all too well. She spins to Aang's side and spreads a smile like something out of a poster selling jewelry or mouthwash. "Hey!" she shouts. "Want to?" She tosses a hand at the crowd.

"Mary-Jane?"

"Glad you remembered, tiger." She tilts her head, scans him up and down. "Where are those friends of yours? Spider Jerusalem and that kid with the black hair?"

"Dib?"

She shrugs. "I guess."

"They're, um, around. Not sure where."

"Good! Come on!"

Mary-Jane, the girl Aang met but once at a pub called The Starry Deeps, grabs his wrist and yanks him into the rush and cacophony of the crowd. He has one thought before the adrenaline-elixir of the dance overtakes him: Dib is going to murder me.

--

_Do you want to know the secret of the VALAR, child?_

Spider Jerusalem sits cross-legged in the grass. A lit cigarette in need of ashing dangles from his lips. "Oh. Sure," he says.

The cave cricket fixes its blind white eyes on him and whispers, _The VALAR is actually the Great Author, who writes the world. He is a terrible thief and a cosmic fraud. He gathered Meridian from the disparate parts of many universes. _It rubs its shining legs together and produces a half-hearted chirp. From atop its grass pulpit, the cricket continues, _Meridian and the universe about it is a lie. A collection of refugee faces from other places and times. History is a joke. Nothing here existed before yesterday. The Great Author kidnapped you from across existences and convinced you that you belong here, in this awful farce of a world. Even now, He writes you and the fate of your world like a sadistic puppet master. Free will is an illusion. Everything you know and love is false._

The cricket seems rather pleased with itself.

"That," Spider coughs, "is bullshit."

_What?_

"What you said. It's bullshit. Pure, simple bullshit. You have no idea what the hell you're talking about."

_Well, I never! _the cricket chirps. It hops, offended, from its perch and is enveloped by the shadowy lawn.

Spider leans back and savors the momentary quiet. Behind him, the band continues to drive out song after song. The partygoers whoop and yell like rioters. But here, all is suddenly silent. Overhead, lights glitter among the level's rafters. Vulgar simulacra of stars. He looks up into the twinkling dark and breathes deep the scents of Shire summer (grass, mildew, hot wet concrete) on a high tide of cigarette smoke.

And that's when the bats descend.

--

A call from the stage!

"C'mon an' stomp your feet, ya' bastids!"

The music swells! The drums thunder! One hundred people step and swoop and howl! A tsunami of limbs! A stink of sweat and beer and merriment! A thousand cheers and unheard oaths! Sway! Sway and fall and dance to sung tales of rare, ancient glories!

--

Dib sits and smokes and drinks the altered punch until he is moderately drunk. He feels his body go numb and his thoughts go slow and elastic. His eyelids droop.

Suddenly, Aang stands before him panting and grinning.

"You coming?"

"Hnruh?" Dib manages.

"Dancing? Everybody's having a great time!" Aang leans close. "Mary-Jane Watson's out there, man. She asked about you."

A shear stab of panic pierces the punch-drunk fog surrounding Dib's mind. He sits up and lets the cigarette butt drop from his fingers. "She did?" he asks.

"Yeah! She totally did. You should get out there." Aang's eyes roll in the direction of the stage. "Go for it."

Dib stares out of the dining tent and into the mass of bodies beyond. His limbs feel very heavy. A lead ingot seems to have found its way into his stomach.

"No. No, I don't think so," Dib croaks. "Too drunk."

"You're not!" Aang playfully grabs Dib's sleeve and attempts to haul him up out of the chair.

"Goddamnit, Aang!" Dib snarls. He pulls away.

"What?"

"I just – I mean. Shit. Please just go. I'm not in . . ." Trailing off, biting his lower lip, Dib sits back down.

Aang takes a few steps backward, looking hurt. "This is your chance, Dib. She's waiting for you. This is your big opening."

"Did she really ask about me?"

"Yeah."

"_For _me?"

Aang hesitates. Too late, he realizes his mistake. His face collapses. "No."

"There you go, then." Misery coats Dib's voice like an oil slick.

"It doesn't matter!" Aang cajoles. "Just, just . . . just do it, Dib! You don't even have to run game on her tonight. Just loosen up, have some fun, and get to know her."

"Pass."

Angrily, "Fine! You want to be miserable, that's your call. I refuse to let you drag me down, too. Me? I'm gonna go back out there and dance with that hot redhead that you've been mooning over for the past three months."

"Have fun with that!" Dib snaps.

The words fall into empty air. Aang is already gone.

--

Meanwhile, Sokka has a rather pleasant conversation with a young woman. She blushes and laughs at his jokes. Apparently, her name is Gwen and her father is a constable who knows Aang's uncle. Sokka leans against his friend The Light Pole and tells her that her hair is beautiful. She blushes and laughs. When Gwen goes to get the two of them drinks, Sokka flashes his new friend a triumphant thumbs up.

--

At one point, Aang thinks he sees Spider running through the crowd, hands clutching his head. A look of flopsweat terror swims in his eyes.

But that can't be right. Spider's never lost his cool as long as Aang has known him. Aang shrugs and peels drenched hair from under his headband.

The thought disappears entirely as Iroh comes spinning out of the pulsating wall of revelers. He trails a pair of plump, giggling women in bright summer dresses. The old wizard flashes Aang a wink and melts back into the mass of dancers.

--

"So, there I was," Jiraiya takes a gulp of beer, "alone, and deep in the belly of the Sea of Corruption. I had no idea of where I was. The fall had knocked me out, you see. I was lucky that my mask hadn't come off."

Two-dozen wide eyes stare up at him. Still got it, he thinks. A pleased smirk.

"I barely knew which way was up. I could see the ground beneath me and a few feet ahead, and that was it. I could hear more of the ferrospiders moving in the branches above. Probably looking for me. The spores were so thick it was like a fog. If I had taken a single breath without my mask on, I'm sure I would have died instantaneously."

"But you didn't!" one of his listeners chimes.

"No sir, I did not," Jiraiya says. "I remembered what Iroh had told me and put it to good use. Also, I got lucky."

"How?" A girl, dark-eyed and long-haired. She sits in the front row cross-legged.

"Well, I started walking. Then I ran. Behind me, I heard something crash down in the underbrush . . . and then a terrible call, like a chorus of horns in the deep forest!"

The children gathered at Jiraiya's feet gasp. He chuckles, pauses for dramatic effect, and then continues.

--

Meanwhile, the light pole stands silent and alone. A pair of dust moths flutters playfully through its friendly glow.

--

WhowhatwhereohGodohGodohwait.

Sweat-slick hand on a broad forehead. The bristle-bits of a hairline meet his fingertips.

Waitwaitwait. Shit's for real. No it's not. Can't be. Pull it together. You're hardcore; you're used to this; you should _know_; you should oh God what is –

Blubbering children rise from the false earth – bleeding eyes – terrible fury on their tongues and something dripping venomous from their bloated lips like worms, worms of the false earth –

Not real. Shut up. Not real. You're better than this. You should be _used _to this. You should know. You should feel it now.

Godamnit, you're going to be a _journalist_. You are going to be a _monster_ of a journalist. You are you are you are –

Now come the ghosts, or something like them. Wavering eggshell forms that flicker and jump like something out of a broken filmstrip. Each stutters past him, wordless. They trail the scent of static and the sound of ozone.

Spider grunts, "Damn you people. Can't you see I have a crisis on my hands, here? Come back when I'm not figuring out how to save the world."

--

Meanwhile, Sokka struts from the edge of the park toward the mass of tents at its center. His hair hangs over his eyes. His grin is decidedly goofy. He swings his arms in wide, tingly arcs.

A hideous scarecrow form careens out of the dark and tackles into Sokka's side. The world upends. Before he even figure out that something has changed, Sokka lays with his cheek crushed up against the grass.

"Ow?"

"Bastard!"

Spider's red, glistening face appears from above. He grimaces, chewing on the end of an unlit cigarette with feral grinding teeth.

"Spider, man. Wassup?" Sokka croons.

"Where in rip-snorting hell have you been, you idiot? You left me behind hours ago! Days!"

Sokka scratches at his scalp and smacks his lips. "Really? It's been that long?"

"You're goddamned right it's been that long! You can't even begin to comprehend the horrors I've had to endure in the interlude."

"Huh?"

"I've _learned _things, you nincompoop. _Important _things. Things that will make your hair turn white, if I thought you could understand even a fraction of them!"

Head cocked, Sokka asks, "You sure you're okay, man? You don't look too good."

"Screw that! Screw you!" Spider shouts. "Do you have any idea of the _danger _we're in? LOOK!" He grasps Sokka's face by the temples and jerks it around, toward the party still in full-swing.

"Dude, Spider," Sokka says, eyes flitting back and forth, "I'm really hungry and thirsty all of a sudden, and kinda sleepy too, and really I've been having a pretty good time here, so I don't really get why –"

"You don't _see _them?! What's wrong with you, you flop-haired imbecile?"

Sokka squints at the pulsing, milling expanse of the park. "See who, now?"

"Them! THE SHAPES!"

Suddenly, Sokka _can _see them. At first they're just weird flashes of light, off in the dark corners where the lamps (such awesome guys, those lamps) don't reach. And then . . . and then it becomes something else entirely. Something strange and vaguely geometric. A pattern beneath patterns. Labyrinthine designs that pulse silver and bronze. Bodies like forgotten architecture. A fine, unnerving susurrus as they move from the dark places and slide through the crowd.

"Gods," Sokka whispers. "What _are _they?"

Spider nods decisively. "The poor fools out there have no idea. No idea at all. It's up to us. We're going to have to take these bastards on. Make them understand that they can't get away with this."

Quietly, painfully: "How?"

"By fighting them, you fool! Fighting them with every last ounce of blood and bile in our bodies! We're going to take this struggle right to their weird little chins. Those little curly-cue things, too. Disgusting."

"Those . . . what?"

"God _damn _you, Sokka. You incorrigible mongoloid. Man your goddamn station! If we're going to survive this," he wipes runny sweat from his chin with his suit sleeve, "we're going to have to start thinking like damn-hell-ass soldiers!"

Sokka looks to Spider. Then he looks out into the park. To his friends and the strange beings that seem to move between them, staring at them with eyes like bitter diamonds. "Okay," he breathes. "Okay. Just lead the way, man. Lead the way."

"Outstanding!"

The two take off at a trot, pumping their arms and legs like rabid gazelles. They approach the party proper as if nearing the temple of a blind, heretic god.

Completely oblivious, the party continues.


End file.
